Poetry

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;Taking me back down the vista of years, till I seeA child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling stringsAnd pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of songBetrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belongto the old Sunday evenings at home, with the winter outsideAnd hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamourWith the great black piano appassionato. The glamourOf childish days is upon me, my manhood is castDown in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

David Herbert Lawrence 1985-1930 Great Britain﻿

﻿The Piano

When my heart is unsettled, And tossed about the seas of emotions,My fingers go to the keyboard,Where my soul bleeds the pain,Into the notes,Into the music,And I seek peace,Among dead composers.

R.Scarlett﻿

There I see the grand pianoMy staccato heart beat transitions into a booming crescendoAnxious and impatient I drop everything and rush overAnd let my childish fingers dance on the perfectly polished keys over and overAll of my worries, fears, troubles, and tears diminish as I start to playSweet melodies and haunting songsTo get me through the day.

-By Me

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